


A Mother knows best

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:05:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur ends up taking an injured Eames to his mother's house. Which both Eames and his mother interpret as 'meeting the parents'. May Hannerton is glad to see her son and his partner, though she is less glad to discover more about their life style. And she is definitely not glad about the blood in the bathroom. Or the book she has to read for her club, but that's another matter. </p><p>for my Wild Card, prompt is 'lacerations / knife wounds'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mother knows best

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS!!!!: past addiction issues, stab wound, nightmares

May Hannerton is reading, catching up on her book-club book, by the light of the table lamp. She likes reading in the kitchen like this, the back doors open onto the garden, a cool breeze keeping away dust and stuffiness but the room still cozy from the gentle orange light. She’s struggling with the book, not something she’d usually bother with, so she’s very happy to hurry up and get the door when the bell goes. 

She opens the door and the screen with a smile already in place, expecting Mrs Bartleby from next door and meaning to invite her in for coffee to avoid the awful book a bit longer, but everything fades out when she sees who’s stood on her doorstep. 

“Goodness gracious, Arthur Hannerton, I hope you realise just how much trouble you’re in?” She says, voice faint with shock. 

She hasn’t seen her son in almost four years, but she knows this is him. She’d recognise him even if it had been twenty years, which she was beginning to fear it would be. He looks flustered, sweaty, exhausted, but so beautiful. Still her little boy, really, inside his smart suit jacket. She gets hold of his collar and straightens it, re-tying his tie. 

“Mom,” Arthur says, “I’m so, so sorry about this, I just didn’t know where else to go. I’m afraid I’m going to be incredibly rude.”

Saying so, he gently pushes her aside and turns away. When he turns again, he’s got hold of a drooping, heavily muscled man in a blood-stained t-shirt and smart trousers. The man’s head comes up in a slow, weak movement, and May’s eyes meet his, and then his head sinks onto his chest again. 

“Arthur,” the man says, “did you… finally… brin-“

“Yes, Mr Eames, I have finally brought you to meet my mother. Be quiet, stop trying to make jokes, you’re not funny at the best of times,” Arthur says, dragging the man into the house. 

“Right,” May says, getting over her surprise a little, “Bathroom. I had one installed on this floor for your grandmother, thank _heavens_ she’s staying with your aunt for a bit. It’s where the utility room used to be.”

May shows Arthur the way and puts the lights on as she goes. She grabs a pile of towels from the airing cupboard as well and spreads them on the floor as Arthur seats his friend, Mr Eames he’d said, on the toilet. 

“Lay him down, Arthur,” May says, clicking her tongue in disapproval, “the poor man will topple over if you leave him perching there.”

“I wasn’t plan-“ Arthur begins.

“Do as you’re told, put your friend on the floor so I can take a look,” May says, waiting for him to do as she says. 

Mr Eames gives a slow, croaking, coughing laugh when he’s laid on his back, hand tight in Arthur’s shirt tail where it’s come untucked. 

“What on earth is funny about this, Mr Eames?” Arthur asks.

May shushes her son and starts to unbutton Mr Eames’ shirt. 

“What’s your first name, Mr Eames?” May asks as she works, “do you work with my Arthur?”

“Mom, he can’t-“

“Hush, Arthur,” May says. 

She gets Mr Eames’ shirt off and finds the source of the blood- a knife wound, serrated blade by the looks of it. There’s a deep, deep gash in Mr Eames’ side. 

“Was this rusty?” May asks, getting up to get her meagre first aid kit, “I think we need a hospital. I assume you brought him here for a reason? Is he a criminal?”

The silence lets her know enough for now. So much for having a nice insurance sales-man for a son. So many boasts of how her Arthur never went bad down the drain. Ah well. 

“I have a first aid kit in the car,” Arthur says, disentangling himself from his friend and hurrying out. 

“Was rusty,” Mr Eames says, breathless, “name’s… Eames.”

“Yes, Mr Eames, I gathered that from my son. I was hoping for a first name, but no matter,” May says, tearing open a pair of gloves and a few small anti-septic wipes and getting started cleaning, pressing a towel to slow the bleeding as she works. 

“Eames… is… ah!” Mr Eames shivers under the pressure, but settles with his teeth gritted, “bloody hell, that stings!”

“Yes, it will do, you got stabbed,” May says, dry as she can. 

Mr Eames laughs again. 

“That’s where… Arthur gets… that,” he gasps, “name’s Eames. Both.”

“Hmm. Am I to call you just that, then? Eames?” 

“Yes.”

May nods and riffles through the kit, looking for something useful. Really she needs stitching equipment, a brighter light, more antiseptic, ideally she’d like to give Eames a tetnus injection. 

“How up to date are your jabs?” She asks, finding a packet of gauze. 

“Enough,” Eames says, voice quieter. 

Arthur comes crashing back in, dropping a veritable trunk of a first aid kit at her side. 

“This looks thorough,” May says, “get Eames a blanket, Arthur, and put the kettle on for a hot water bottle. And close the back doors, please.”

“Mom,” Arthur starts.

“Go, now.”

He goes, tripping over his feet, making Eames laugh tiredly again. May opens the first aid box and finds the things she needs. Once Arthur returns with the blanket and hot water bottle she lets him stay and keep Eames from slipping into sleep. It takes about half an hour to stitch up. 

“Right, that’ll do for now,” May says, “I’m not happy about this, though. I’d like to check for internal damage and I’d like to give him a blood bag. This is a stop-gap solution that may not be enough.”

“He’ll manage,” Arthur says, “he’s had worse.”

“Fucking Portugal,” Eames mutters, “Eliot Spencer is a dead man if I ever see him again.”

Eames’ voice is a murmur now. May sits back on her heels and tidies up around him, considering how to get him out of the bathroom. In the end she decides on her mother’s wheelchair. They get Eames settled in the livingroom on the sofa bed, and May gets started assessing the other, less serious damage. There’s a black eye, a split lip, a slash on the cheek, bruises across Eames’ torso and a dark, black, boot shaped bruise on his thigh. Arthur uncovers each for her, letting her examine them. 

“Well, I’m satisfied for now. Let me get your old baby monitor and then you and I are going to have a long talk in the kitchen, Mr Hannerton,” May says to Arthur. 

Once they’re sure the monitor still works they settle at the table. May looks at her book, discarded with a bent spine on the table, and wonders what the hell happened. 

“Put the kettle on, love,” she says, sighing, “and then tell me what you can.”

Arthur, always obedient, does as he’s told. May doesn’t push him until they’re both sat with hot mugs of sweet tea. 

“Tell me now, son,” she says, gentle as she can be.

“We were… working. Um, on insurance.”

“Right. Let’s stick to working, shall we? As few lies as possible, if you please.”

“We were working. Not so close that I could pop home, but close enough to be familiar. The place we had planned on going was… compromised. I improvised.”

“Who hurt him?”

“A client. Eames misjudged an old acquaintance,” Arthur says, then frowns, “which is unusual, actually. Very, very unusual for Eames to get someone wrong.”

“He’s good at reading people?”

“Very. It’s his job.”

“Hmm. I can’t say I’m happy about any of this, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“I said ‘not happy’. As this is how things are, I can live with it, on one condition. You tell me the truth, no more lies.”

“I can’t-“

“I didn’t say tell me everything, just make sure that what you do tell me is true.”

Arthur nods. May decides that’s good enough for tonight.

“Good. In that case, why don’t you crawl into bed with your Mr Eames and I’ll see you in the morning?”

It’s really very pleasing to watch Arthur turn bright red and start sputtering, choking on his tea. Mothers always know. May leaves him to it with a smug smile, kisses his forehead, and then retires to her bedroom. 

The next morning May is greeted, when she walks into the kitchen, by Arthur’s Mr Eames. He’s sat at the table, a laptop open in front of him, a cup of tea at his elbow. He glances up at her and smiles, shutting the computer firmly. 

“Ms Hannerton,” he says, smiling, “would you like a cup of tea?”

“Mr Eames, call me May, I’m more likely to answer to that. I live with my mother, she reserves her right to the name ‘Mrs Hannerton’.”

“You have your mother’s name? Arthur has yours?”

“We are a matriarchal family, on the whole. We did the bra burning thing.”

“Ah,” Eames says, grinning, “so did I.”

“You wear bras?”

Eames grins wider.

“I’m a-“ he stops, bites his lip and widens his eyes, “oops.”

“I think we’ll leave that one there,” May says, going to make her own tea, “you should be in bed. Perhaps that should be our next topic of conversation?”

“I think perhaps we should leave that one, too,” Eames says, sounding hopeful. 

May’s pretty sure that his attitude is put on. The slip about the bras might not have been, but his reaction to it was and his ‘misbehaved boy’ is certainly not real. May sighs and turns back to him, assessing him. 

“You would do well not to try and manipulate me,” she says eventually, “which I am sure you are doing.”

“Habit,” Eames says, not looking at all apologetic, “I’m out of bed because I am restless and I can bear the pain. Your stitches will hold.”

“Let me check, and then I’ll leave it.”

Eames nods and sits back, pulling up his shirt and allowing her to remove the bandages and check her handiwork. It does look like sitting up isn’t doing too much damage. Most of the damage to be done is through tiring himself out and not letting his body focus on healing, but she has a feeling this particular body is used to dealing with that. She nods and puts a clean bandage over the tear in flesh. 

“This isn’t a graze, Mr Eames,” she says, “this isn’t a cut, this is a wound. You’re very lucky no big veins were hit. I’d like you to be x-rayed, to make sure nothing vital was hit.”

“I’ll hope for the best. Got to lie low a few days.”

“Very well.”

May sits and drinks her tea, watching Eames. He’s an interesting man to watch. His face is mobile and he arranges it, as she watches, into several configurations, as if in reaction to things around the kitchen; pleasure at the cutesy tea-towels of her mother's, intellectual curiosity about the painting, amusement about the joke printed and stuck with a lobster magnet to the fridge. And then his eyes fall on the photo of Arthur that she has stuck to a cupboard and his face goes blank and then he smiles, soft and fond and real. Arthur comes crashing into the house, then, in running clothes. 

“Eames! You should not be up, you idiot! What are you doing? Mom, why are you letting him do this? Back to bed, Mr Eames.”

Arthur doesn’t allow either of them a word in edgewise. Eames grumbles and bats at Arthur’s hands but he allows himself to be lead away with limited fuss. He leans into Arthur’s side and lets himself droop. May follows them with her eyes and in the hallway Eames droops further, pausing to get his breath and muttering something about pain. After they vanish into the livingroom there’s silence for a bit, and then Arthur comes out and sits, commandeering Eames’ tea for himself.

“Did you have a good run, dear?” May asks.

“I did. Why was Eames up?”

“I don’t know. He told me he was restless, but I get the feeling that young man lies regularly and with ease. His face certainly has practise doing so.”

“He does it out of habit, don’t judge him for not being more open.”

“I have not yet come to a judgement, based on that or the other things I’ve observed. He may have been working, he had the computer on when I interrupted.”

Arthur flips up the lid and snorts. 

“No, he was watching ‘MI High’, a children’s TV show.”

Arthur turns the laptop so May can see the frozen image of three kids in the middle of jumping off something. Arthur then turns it back and clicks a few times, frowning, then types quickly, without looking at the keys, then shuts it again. 

“We should be out of your hair soon,” he says, “I’m arranging… a lift.”

“You’re welcome to stay. I’m glad you ended up here, Arthur. I don’t like what you do, and I will be having many more conversations about that with you in the future, but four years is a long time to wait for your son to find time for you. And I’m glad I got to meet your boyfriend.”

Arthur goes bright red again and opens his mouth, but they’re interrupted by a yell from the other room and then a scream. They both jump up and run through, a thump coming when the door flies open under Arthur’s impetus. Arthur doesn’t even pause, dropping to the floor and hauling Eames up, soothing him, calm and sure, hands running over his back. May watches. 

“Shh, you’re alright. Eames? You with me?”

“Yeah. Oh buggering shit, ow, ow, ow.”

“Throwing yourself out of bed will do that when you have a knife wound.”

“Just like your mother.”

“I am not.”

“Are too. Seriously, ow.”

“I know. Relax, I’ve got this.”

Eames goes limp, allowing Arthur’s body to act as support. He’s pale, eyes shadowed, shut. Clenched in pain, mouth tight. May wonders if she should offer to help. 

“Better?” Arthur asks. 

“Yes. You’re perfect at your job, as usual.”

“Shut up.”

Arthur heaves and Eames yelps, then they’re both standing. Eames’ legs give and Arthur half drags, half carries him back to the bed and lays him out on his side, rubbing along from hip to shoulder with one hand while digging around in a bag left out on the bed with another. He comes up with a blister pack and pops out two pills.

“Narcotic?” Eames asks. 

“No, as promised.”

“Thanks.”

Eames takes the medication and closes his eyes, sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

“Which was this one?” Arthur asks. 

“Just, you know.”

“Things I don’t know?”

“No, actually. Things you do know. Think it was the third time we met?”

“Oh. I’m sorry, she was a good woman.”

“Yeah.”

Eames’ voice grows quieter and he slips back into sleep. Arthur sits, watching, hands keeping up his soothing for a bit, then he stands and comes over. 

“He’s not my anything,” Arthur says to her, stopping beside her so they’re shoulder to shoulder facing opposite directions, “except a colleague.”

Arthur leaves, then, right out the front door. May supposes he’ll be back. She sits and watches over his friend. 

Eames wakes up with Arthur’s name on his lips, the third time he wakes. Arthur’s still not home, so it falls to May to reassure him. She does, sticking to words because she’s pretty sure he won’t accept physical contact from her. He watches her, eyes wide and glazed. 

“I think I have a fever,” he says, flopping about like a landed fish.

May checks for infection after discovering that, yes, he does have a fever, but she finds none. 

“It must just be your body protesting,” she says, sitting again, “as long as it stays low I’m not worried. You should rest, though, and not go gallivanting about the house watching children’s TV.”

It’s the first time May sees any kind of remorse or embarrassment from the man. Of all the thing he’s done and said his TV choices seems the most innocuous to her, and yet this is what he’s embarrassed about.

“Arthur tells me off for watching it,” Eames says, regaining some equilibrium and grinning, “your son is incorrigible, Ms H.”

“You may use Mrs, Eames. I was happily married for enough time that I use the title.”

“Mrs H.”

May decides she can live with that. 

“What else is my son, Mr Eames? Specifically, what is my son to you?”

May also decides that, as a mother, she is perfectly allowed to meddle in Arthur’s life. 

“Arthur is, and I quote him on this, not my anything.”

“Hmm.”

May considers questioning him further, but Eames is clearly in pain and a considerable amount of discomfort so instead she shakes out his duvet to make it fresher and tucks him in, like she used to do for Arthur. 

“Are you taking anything for the pain?” she asks.

“Just Advil. Arthur’ll get me the good stuff while he’s off having his little moment.”

“His little moment,” May repeats, looking around for Advil and finding it on the coffee table, along with a bottle of water and prescription for an anti-biotic under the name Mr Lewisham, “Lewisham, indeed.”

“I made the alias,” Eames says, proud as punch. 

May turns, eyebrows rising, mouth open, but Eames’ eyes are glazed over and he’s entirely out of it. Instead she just passes him the medication and makes sure he takes it. 

“Made Arthur lots of Aliases,” Eames mutters, burrowing into his bedding, “always for free. Goddam his lovely face, I can’t ever say no. Love the stupid bugger.”

“Mm,” May says, soft, hoping for more. 

“’Very one thinks… heart broken, you know? Because I am a very charming rogue. So he’s scared. Ha!” Eames laughs for a bit, then giggles to himself, “Arthur’s not scared of a thing. Not a thing. Not so’s you’d know, anyway. I think he’s frightened of spiders, myself. Now THAT was an interesting dream.”

May smiles. Her son always did have a way of demonstrating courage.

“Courage isn’t a lack of fear,” May says, as she has to Arthur a hundred times, “it’s the strength to face fear. Failing to do that doesn’t make you a coward, either. We’ll all face fears over and over through our lives, sometimes we’ll have the strength, sometimes we won’t.”

“Arthur’s brave,” Eames murmurs, half asleep, “he’s a very brave man.”

And then Eames is out, and May can’t question him any further. She frowns. If he loves Arthur, and Arthur loves him, she can’t see what the problem is. Beyond her son being a stubborn man, which he always has been. She watches over Eames for another half hour before Arthur slips into the room with a prescription in a pharmacy bag. 

“Good evening, Mr Lewisham,” May says. 

“Huh?” Arthur says.

“Your Mr Eames has a fever and is rather talkative. Apparently you have hundreds of aliases, lovingly crafted by Eames.”

“Ah. About that. Um…”

“Please don’t lie.”

“It’s one of the things I can’t tell you about. How is he?”

“Feverish, but there’s no infection. In pain, but I assume you brought something to counter that?”

“Prescription-strength ibuprofen, and Tramadol but I don’t think he’ll take the latter unless he’s really struggling to control the pain. If he’s able to sleep he’ll probably stick to the ibuprofen.”

“I’d suggest a stronger narcotic. He has a hole in his side, and quite a big one at that.”

“He’s an addict, we’ll try the other stuff first.”

“An addict, a criminal, a man who makes fake ids. Good going, Arthur. What a man to fall in love with!”

“I am not in love with him.”

Arthur shakes Eames awake, derailing the rest of the things May has to say. Eames wakes immediately and tenses, then relaxes and hums, a pleased smile spreading across his face, eye-lids drooping. 

“Arthur,” he says, “hello. Did you get me the good stuff?”

“Tramadol?”

Eames groans and pouts. 

“Would prefer not,” Eames says, “it’s not that bad.”

“Really.”

“…” Eames huffs, then heaves himself to sit up and winces, then sighs, “one more day? If it gets worse…”

“I have awesome ibuprofen.”

“I love awesome ibu… that. Mm. You’re warm.”

Eames slumps against Arthur, eyes sliding shut. Arthur doesn’t even react, just rummages for the meds and feeds them to Eames, placing them into his mouth and laughing, before laying Eames back on the bed. 

“Sleep, Eames. Okay?”

“Mm.”

Arthur waits for Eames to drift back under before turning to her and jerking his head towards the kitchen. She picks up the baby monitor and goes, watching him pacing the length of the room for a while. 

“I hate him being in pain,” Arthur admits, “it makes me mad. He’ll take the Tramadol tomorrow and that’ll help him start healing better. We should be out of your hair, day after that.”

“You’re not in my hair. I like to see my son, Arthur. And I am glad I have had the chance to meet your partner.”

“He’s not-“

“Just because you’re not sleeping together or kissing one another doesn’t mean it’s not true. You may not have defined it as such, but that’s what it is. You cuddle, Arthur!”

“I do not,” Arthur says, affronted, petulant, like he used to be as a toddler. 

May laughs and pushes him into a chair, putting the kettle on and getting out tea things. 

“You’ll get there, don’t worry,” she says.

“I’m not dating him!”

“So you keep on telling me,” she says, making sure to sound completely complacent and smug. 

“How on earth does dragging his arse here count as dating him?”

“Well, you sleep with him, in the same bed.”

“He has nightmares.”

“You know that he has nightmares. You brought him to meet your mother. You break the law to get him painkillers, you sit with him when he’s in pain, you let him snuggled with you, you hug him, you-“

“Shut up.”

May gives Arthur his tea and keeps quiet, giving him time to think. She’ll leave it for now, tomorrow she’ll mention something to Eames… she’ll bet her house that next time Arthur calls (and he will call, now, because he’ll feel guilty for bringing whatever it is his life has become to her doorstep) it will be with grudging, embarrassed news of his and Eames’ relationship changing. She smiles into her tea. It’s about time her baby found someone to bestow all that love on.

“Stop smiling like that, it’s frightening,” Arthur says, “it used always to mean that you were coming up with some plan or other.”

“Me? Plan?” May says innocently, laughing when Arthur just looks at her. 

“I’m going to go sit with Eames, who is not my partner or my boyfriend or anything, and drink my tea in peace.”

“Ah yes, watching a colleague sleep is so normal,” May says, laughing harder. 

Arthur just leaves her to it, taking his tea with him and stealing her book on the way, the book club one that she’s been avoiding. May gets up and makes pizza dough, because she has to be busy or she might have to deal properly with the fact of Arthur’s new (or probably not so new, judging by his calm competence that she’s had glimpses of) life-style. Her son is a criminal. May makes some cookies, too.

Eames sleeps almost the whole of the next day, on the Tramadol (which he does take in the end), and Arthur splits his time between sitting with Eames and sitting with May, telling her snippets about what he does, has done in the past.

“I worked with Dom Cobb, an academic. We were doing research and then it just grew out of that.”

“Dom Cobb was accused of killing his wife, and we had to improvise.”

“The area we were studying had lots of links and ties to the world we became part of, so it wasn’t hard to make contacts.”

“I run point.”

“I’m always careful, and I always consider you before taking a job. If I think the risk out-weighs the benefits, or if I think it’s something you would be unable to reconcile with your son, I turn it down.”

“Eames used to pull us into jobs, before the whole ‘Dom may have killed Mal’ thing, and they weren’t always entirely this side of the law. That’s more the kind of thing I do these days, this job was a bit unusual.”

“I’ll take smaller jobs and try to lower the risk, now I’m in touch with you.”

“I love you.”

May listens, makes tea, makes sandwiches and listens some more. From little hints she gathers, along with some things Eames has said about dreams, she works out the Arthur probably works in dream-sharing. She’s aware of the Somnacin project from work, she’s been attending physician for cases where knowledge of Somnacin and dreaming has been important, so she knows a fair bit about both the legal and the illegal uses. She assumes some kind of espionage. Judging by the way Arthur dresses, probably corporate espionage. 

May knows very little about corporate espionage, so she retreats to her office and does some googling. The results are probably inaccurate and based on films and TV and other media, but it gives her a few ideas and alerts her to the difference between the jobs Arthur talks about taking now and the ones he took with this Dom Cobb. She also googles him, and comes up with some respectable academic credits and a man by that name linked as guest lecturer to universities more recently. Clearly he was cleared of having killed his wife. May googles Mal Cobb as well, to see what that brings up. 

The case details are sporadic and vague. More interesting are the papers published under Mal Cobb’s name, research into various areas of organic chemistry, and some later ones on lucid dreaming, spirit walking, drugged sleep. The benefits and negatives of subjecting your brain to chemical intervention to induce particular states. May’s about to look through one of the later ones when Arthur knocks on the door and comes in. 

“Mom? I’m going to go down to the supermarket. I need to get us some clothes that aren’t suits and Eames wants ‘something really soft, like this jumper, and something really… chocolate. Something really chocolate’.”

May smiles at his imitation of his partner and waves him away, shutting the computer. 

“Do you want anything?” he asks, “and would you mind sitting with Eames? He’s a bit high and doesn’t really enjoy that.”

“Sure,” Mays says, “I don’t need anything. You could pick up some oranges, though. Your Eames has eaten his way through a net or satsumas.”

“Oh. Yeah, he likes those. I’ll replace them.”

Arthur goes and May follows him downstairs to the livingroom. She waits while he tells Eames the plan and then goes to sit in the arm chair. Eames watches her, eyes narrowed, when Arthur’s gone. He still looks a bit feverish. Suddenly he beams at her.

“You’re Arthur’s mother!” he says. 

“Yes, I am.”

“Always thought he’d just sprung from the ground.”

“I can assure you there was no springing involved.”

“Mm. I am going to tell you a secret, now. I’m not English.”

“No?”

“Nope. I was born in Wales and grew up ALL over. Here, there, everywhere. Arthur thinks I’m English aristocracy.”

Eames grins, pleased with himself, fingers running over the counterpane. 

“Indeed.”

“I have the accent down, you see. Lots of accents, lots of places. English ex-pat is a good one, though. Good guy. Met him, name was John. His, not mine. Mine was Ruben.”

“I see.”

“Stole it all from him. Everything. Even his moustache! But, had to get rid of that.”

“Rest, Mr Eames. You should be asleep.”

“I have been. For a really long time. Arthur’s buying me chocolate.”

“I know.”

“Is he buying you chocolate? No. Oranges. Buying you… My mother used to put out a big bowl of oranges, every Christmas. Huge bowl, but little oranges. With stalks. And leaves.”

Eames putters out for a while, humming to himself, then he starts muttering darkly about someone called Rufus, and then he falls asleep. May picks up the book Arthur nicked and tries to get into it again. She manages two chapters, and then Eames wakes up all at once, gets out of bed and then groans in pain. 

“Mr Eames,” May says, “if you have forgotten where you are, I am Arthur’s mother.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, turning to her, eyes wide and glazed, and then he blinks, “Right. Mrs H. Sorry, I… dreaming.”

“I’m surprised you still dream. Somnacin tends to suppress natural dreams,” May says.

She doesn’t think before saying it, she forgets that there are things she’s not supposed to know, things Arthur doesn’t want her to know. Eames looks surprised, but he covers it well and grins at her instead. 

“Arthur gets his brains from you, Ma’am,” Eames says, “you’re right. Somnacin does. I actually do… other work. A lot of the time.”

“Real world crime. Good lord, Arthur really knows how to pick them.”

Eames gets back into bed and shuts his eyes, grin softening to a smile.

“Arthur,” he breathes, “has a charming innocence when it comes to people.”

“Mm.”

“He’s willing to accept everyone. Though, he doesn’t think much of Yusuf,” Eames says and laughs.

It turns into a shuddering cough and Eames drifts back to sleep before May can think of asking who Yusuf is. Arthur comes home before she can get anything else out of Eames. May’s retreated to the kitchen and is making pizza from her pizza dough when she hears a startled squawk from the livingroom. She hurries through and walks in on Eames kissing Arthur. Thoroughly. May clears her throat. 

“Mom!” Arthur yells, sounding scandalised, “Eames!”

“What?” Eames says, all wide eyed innocence and grumbling, “you took my chocolate.”

“I took my chocolate. I did not buy all that for just you!”

May looks at the collection of chocolate bars spread out in front of Eames. There is rather a lot of it. Arthur touches his lips and Eames watches, grinning. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised when Arthur moves forward and kisses him back. He pulls away, though. 

“Your mother is watching,” Eames reminds, “and I think I need to lie down again.”

He does so, suddenly and ungracefully, arm giving way where it’s propping him up. He yelps in pain but starts to laugh almost as fast, knitting his fingers with Arthur’s. 

“Ow, stupid… I knew…” Eames says, breathless, laughing, “oh, I am _high_.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “you are.”

May nods, pleased, and goes back to her pizza. Arthur tells her three times that the kisses were just because Eames was high, and May nods and keeps her smug look in place. She waves them off, once Eames has been half carried to a big, expensive looking car, and makes Arthur promise to take Eames to a hospital and to call her and to visit again, and then they’re gone. She watches the space the car last was for a very long time, holding her sweater around her for warmth, and is surprised by Mrs Bartleby.

“May Hannerton,” Mrs Bartleby says, “where have you been? Shut up with your book these past three days? I thought it was not your thing at all and you’d have given up and come knocking on my door by now.”

“I came close to it,” May says, “My son was here. With his partner.”

“Arthur? How is he? What’s his partner like? Is she in insurance too?”

“Arthur’s trying a few different things at the moment, not working insurance any more. He got tired of it. His partner is a man named Eames, and he’s certainly interesting. He’s a talented… artist. I think. Of a kind. You know what these modern artists are like.”

May creates the story as she goes, guiding Mrs Bartleby into the kitchen for coffee, painting wild pictures of Eames and Arthur and making Mrs Bartleby laugh with stories from the stay (half made up, half sanitized of ‘serated knife wounds’ and ‘bleeding all over my bathroom’). 

It’s three weeks before Arthur rings to grudgingly tell her that Eames is officially his partner. She can hears Eames in the background, and what sounds like a dog, and it sounds much more homely than it used to when he called. He also sounds more relaxed, happier. Better. 

“I’m glad, Arthur. That you found someone, that you found something you enjoy doing. I wish it wasn’t this, that it wasn’t illegal, but I can deal with that. You sound happy.”

“I am, Mom. No, Eames, don’t- well of course it hurt, you idiot, you still- honestly. Mom, I have to go, Eames has got himself stranded on the floor with Iris on top of him. She has a paw in his side and apparently that’s painful.”

“Of course. Go sort him out. I love you, Arthur. Come visit soon.”

“We will.”

Next time, May decides, she’ll work on getting herself a lovely grandchild.


End file.
